Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 19 1827.pdf/11

 The still, sad glory of their name, Hallows no mountain unto Fame; No—not a tree the record bears Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

Yet haply all around lie strew'd The ashes of that multitude; It may be that each day we tread Where thus devoted hearts have bled, And the young flowers our children sow, Take root in holy dust below.

Oh! that the many-rustling leaves Which round our homes the summer weaves, Or that the streams, in whose glad voice Our own familiar paths rejoice, Might whisper through the starry sky To tell where those blest slumberers lie!

Would not our inmost hearts be still'd With knowledge of their presence fill'd, And by its breathings taught to prize The meekness of self-sacrifice? —But the old woods and sounding waves Are silent of those humble graves.

Yet what if no light footstep there In pilgrim-love and awe repair? So let it be!—like Him, whose clay Deep buried by his Maker lay, They sleep in secret—but their sod, Unknown to man, is mark'd of God.F. H.